


Streets and Sanctuaries

by avyssoseleison



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Caretaker Castiel, Cas Dean and Sam becoming a family, Child Neglect, Cop Castiel, Dean Has Self-Esteem Issues, Domestic, Hurt/Comfort, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, One-Sided Attraction at first, Pre-Slash for the better part of the story because Dean is underage, Prostitute Dean, Prostitution, Slow Burn, Underage Prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-27 00:15:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5026246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avyssoseleison/pseuds/avyssoseleison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere between the ever-changing motel rooms and an absent father, Dean has to take it upon himself to provide for his Sammy. But there's no hustling pool if you are barely pushing sixteen and only so many times you can steal bread and bananas until your little brother grimaces at his dinner and refuses to eat it. So Dean has to take a bigger risk to take care of him, probably the biggest of them all: he sells his body. Works as soon as the money runs out and their dad has been gone too long, and it works out just fine. Because there are always enough perverts willing to do an underage boy and enough cops willing to turn a blind eye if the reward for it is handsy enough.<br/>This time, though, Dean comes upon the wrong kind of cop -- an actually upright one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As already stated in the tags, there will be nothing happening between Cas and Dean while Dean is still underage. Though there will be Dean crushing on Cas, one-sidedly. The main focus is much more on Dean having a safe space and growing as a person instead of him hooking up with Castiel.
> 
> At the beginning of the story, Dean is 15 and Cas is roughly ten years older than him.
> 
> The prostitution ends pretty quickly, as you will see, but it will be referenced a lot in the course of the story, so please keep that in mind.
> 
> Updated irregularly.

“Yeah, okay,” Dean breathes out, trying hard to keep his voice steady, not to shudder from the cold and his fear, “A hundred bucks for the night, then.”

The man in front of him smiles, but it’s flat, lacking any real humor. He doesn’t look satisfied, and Dean’s not really sure why; he’s got a good deal, after all, haggled his price down from the three-hunred for the night Dean usually tells himself he insists on. He always gets less, but not as little as right now. So the guy doesn’t have anything to complain about, what with the bargain he’s making. Except maybe about Dean – maybe he’s not completely satisfied with what he sees, what he’s taking, in more way than one.

 _Well,_ Dean thinks stubbornly and with his guts barely even turning, _tough. If he so desperately wants to fuck a male whore, he’s gotta do with me._

“Alright,” the man says, his voice a deep growl that Dean might possibly like any other time, if he wasn’t freezing to death and trying to feed Sammy and if he didn’t know that the clients who are already unhappy before they begin are usually the most vicious ones during an after. He’s scared, but he won’t show it; what good would it do anyway? Either drive the man away or make him even worse – even when they are buying another human being, the clients don’t want to see themselves as _bad guys,_ after all.

“Okay,” Dean repeats, “you already got a place in mind? ‘f not, I know a good, cheap motel. Clean sheets, no need for you to pass the clerk.” Also no chance of anyone coming to help if anything goes south, but Dean’s pointedly not thinking about that. Push comes to shove, he’s got a gun he’s not afraid to use stowed beneath the right side of the mattress.

“I have a hotel room,” is Dean’s answer, and it’s more than he could have hoped for. The only times he went to a hotel were with some _really_ rich clients – those that didn’t even pick up Dean by themselves, but sent someone in a big, fancy car to discreetly sweep some kid off the street and sneak them into the client’s hotel room, where the fun would commence. Those, the rich bastards, were usually even worse than the unhappy ones, because they knew that they could get away with anything, could treat Dean like dirt because the cops wouldn’t care either way, and before even the idea of going to the cops could pop up in any whore’s mind, they could just throw even more money at them, lure them with a few extra bucks.

Dean swallows but nods. If the guy is one of those stinking rich assholes, at least Dean won’t have to worry about next month’s rent anymore. No matter what he might plan to do. Then again, if he was truly rich, he wouldn’t haggle with Dean until he’d only have to pay a hundred bucks, would he? Dean frowns. Maybe he just likes his comfort. Maybe he‘s one of those cheapskates who think any whore should be lucky enough to even get any money at all from him. Or, maybe, he might be a–

“Let us leave already. It’s cold and,” the man interrupts him, expression hard and the gaze out of blue eyes sweeping all over Dean’s body, and Dean feels even colder, “I waited long enough.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, throat tight and insides churning, but his feet moving along nonetheless. “I gotcha.”

They walk down the street, towards where it’s even darker and lonelier, and Dean knows he should turn around and _run_ , that something about this man screams _Bad Idea._ But neither Sammy nor him have had any food today, won’t have any tomorrow if Dean can’t buy some, if there’s nobody to take care of them. And if their dad won’t, then the eldest son has to man the family; it’s the universal truth, the only thing that makes sense. Something John has long since drilled into his head. 

So instead of running, he smiles weakly when the man unlocks the doors of his car and tells him to get in. Yeah, his heart feels like he’s beating out of his chest and his hands are shaking when he puts on his safety belt because his client does too, but he knows he can pull through. Yet, a cold shiver runs down his back when the man locks the doors again right as he starts the car and starts driving, not looking at Dean, but at the dark road ahead.

Dean feels sick to his stomach, but instead of protesting or telling the john to unlock the doors or maybe finally knocking him out and making a run for it, he asks in a voice that he wills to be not as small as he feels, “So, where exactly are we headed?”

The man only blinks at him for the fraction of a second, assessing him as if he could smell Dean’s fear, and then his eyes are directed forward again. 

“The precinct,” he replies, slips a hand into the pocket of his jacket and, without looking away from the road even once again, presents Dean with his badge.


	2. Chapter 2

“No ID, neither federal nor from any school, no entry in our databases, not with your finger prints and especially not under a teenaged ‘Peter Campbell’, no contract for your phone number, no lawyer, no address, and no,” Officer Novak looks at him for a moment, his gaze unreadable and yet not as harsh as the way with which the other officers looked at him, “no emergency contact.”

Despite craving to sink into himself and just hug his knees to his chest, finding that bit of comfort in the enemy’s territory, Dean puffs himself up and stares the officer dead in the eye. “What about it?”

“Yes. What about it indeed.” Officer Novak says and sits down on the sofa that is angled towards the one Dean sits on. For some reason, Officer Novak didn’t throw him in a holding cell or an interrogation room right away but shielded Dean and his flimsy clothing from the other officers, who just stared at him like a particularly interesting but also particularly repugnant insect, and led him into his own office and onto one of the two big leather couches. He also offered Dean water and cocoa and even some warm milk, but shut up with his offers when he received an indignant glare for the latter.

At least he wasn’t rough with Dean. When they were still in the car and on their way to the precinct, Dean offered for him to do whatever he wanted to with him in exchange for letting him go. But Officer Novak didn’t take him up on it, as much as he didn’t strike or threaten Dean for even suggesting such a thing. Wouldn’t have been the first time Dean would have gone through that; not the first time a cop got his hands on him and _did whatever he wanted to._ But the first time he actually made his way to the precinct instead of the backseat of the car.

“What’s your name?” Officer Novak asks, for what must be the tenth time tonight.

“Are you hard of hearing or something?” Dean spits with more bravado than he feels, and deep down, with a little fear of angering the cop welling up. “Peter Campbell.”

Officer Novak simply nods, as if his answers hadn’t been certified and proven bullshit. “And your age?”

“Twenty-one.”

“You look more like fifteen, maybe sixteen, though.”

“Yeah, sue me, I’m short for my age.”

“Because you didn’t get enough to eat?” Officer Novak asks, all casually, no interruption in his tone of voice or in the conversation.

Dean feels a growl trembling in his throat, and he bristles visibly. “No, ‘cause being short and having a babyface runs in my family.”

“What else runs in your family?”

Dean’s glare grows and grows, and he can only hope it makes him look more mature, more threatening. “My family is none of your business,” he says, trying to put an end to their little game. He doesn’t want that bleeding heart cop working to pry facts and secrets and names about his family from him, would have much preferred for him to fuck him in his undercover car and dump him by the roadside instead.

Officer Novak sighs and runs a hand through his already tousled hair. It makes him look more like a human being than a cop, not like the hand of the law and not like what Dean had tagged for a client, but turned out so much worse instead. But them’s the break on the streets, he supposes; tough luck. But what can you do when you can’t trust your instincts when your guts are telling you that everyone’s a bad guy, and when they are always right about that?

“Alright,” Officer Novak says. “Listen, you will either have to speak to me or to my colleagues. But I didn’t officially arrest you yet, only took you into custody, for safekeeping. If you have to talk to my colleagues, this will change. They will also want to properly interrogate you and trace your steps and – find out what you won’t say. Right now and then.”

Dean snorts. “‘s not like you found out anything just now, or possibly can. And I’m not one to cower; you guys ain’t gonna crack me, believe me.”

“I believe you,” Novak states, “and that’s what worries me. If you won’t speak, my colleagues will do everything they can do find out what you won’t tell them. Then, depending on your true age, you will either have to face high charges or jailtime, or, if you’re young enough, your legal guardian will be tracked down and sued for allowing a kid to prostitute himself. You will probably go into foster care and be separated from any possible remaining family.”

That leaves Dean silent for a minute. Not that he doesn’t think John couldn’t possibly track him down if he really needed to – but being in the databses with his real name and fingerprints would be bad, as being separated from Sammy, even for a short while. If they take Dean in now, who knows when John will be back. Who knows when Sammy will get something to eat next. No, he can’t allow this cop to fuck him over.

“Why’re you talking like my parents or whatever must be dead?”

“Are they?”

Dean snorts again and tries to make an amusend, arrogant little noise, but all it ends in is some choked-out sound. He’s scared now, really. For himself, but mostly for Sam. “You gotta be kidding me with all this shit.”

“No,” Officer Novak says and leans forward a bit, his eyes straightforward and inescapable. “If you won’t tell us by yourself why you are most likely underage and working the streets and why there is nobody who keeps you from doing so and seems to protect you in any way, then I vow that I will _personally_ find out who is responsible for this and bring them to justice. I don’t care how reluctant you are, I will protect you and make sure you won’t have to enter any car with trembling hands again.”

Shit, did he actually pick up on that?

“Who asked you to?” Dean asks, loud, louder, almost lashing out, because really, _who did?_ Who does this jerkwater town think he is, to try to meddle in this way? He knows nothing about Dean or Sam or John or the great sacrifices they have to make; knows nothing about what waits in the shadows to strike when you sleep, how any creature is so much worse than any human could be, or any man with rough hands and a desire to hurt. What’s a little pain when there’s ghosts and vampires and mothers burning on the ceiling? What’s a bit blood when Sammy’s stomach grumbles?

“Who asked you to do what you do?” Officer Novak asks in return, voice so fucking soft and soothing, it make Dean even madder. He’s not some unreasonable, angry teenager, he’s the son of a hero and the brother to a child. Not some small-time whore who wants new shoes. “Who asked you to risk your body and life on the streets? I could have been a serial killer for all you know, I could have seriously hurt you, and you seem more upset by me being police than a potential murderer. I don’t know why you do this or for whom, but I can’t imagine that either you nor anyone who cares about you could ever want this for you.” He doesn’t sound soothing anymore; pissed, more like.

“The fuck would you know about what I want for myself? There’s much worse shit that could happen to me, has–… this is nothing. Nothing at all. And if you fucking po-po had anything better to do than snatching people who’re just tryin’ to make a living, you’d know that. Catch the rapists and pedophiles and all those fuckers. Not the damn whores!”

By this point, Dean is already half out of his seats, both their bodies angrily turned towards each other, Dean’s ready to pounce, Officer Novak’s fighting to remain relaxed, although and their hands are as loud and wild as their voices.

“By getting you off the streets, I’m actually giving it my best to protect _you_ from the rapists and pedophiles and ‘all those fuckers’. You think anyone who buys you is anything less than that? That it’s fine for them to do with you what they do?” His voice is a growl, flooded with an anger that Dean just begins to understand is not directed at him. “No one, but especially not a kid like you, deserve to go through something like this. You deserve to be _protected_ – from your ‘clients’ and from whoever fails to protect you at home, from whoever is responsible for you being in this kind of situation in the first place. You think I want to screw you over and that I enjoy picking you off the streets and threatening you with jail, but the truth is, I’m doing this for you, I’m doing this because of kids like you, I’m doing this because you deserve to be _saved._ ”

There’s silence. Inside Officer Novak’s office, and the voices and low-key mumbling outside have ceased as well.

Dean doesn’t even feel himself deflating, not really. From one moment to the next, all the fear and anger and frustration is leaving his body, washed away by the words of the officer, still ringing loud and clear in his head. _You deserve to be saved._ And instead of lashing out or running away or crumpling into himself, Dean lets himself sink into the welcoming leather of the back of the sofa, lets it swallow him and lets his head loll to the side, because keeping it upright would suddenly require too much energy, and like this, he can continue watching Officer Novak, with his troubled face and open hands and honest care.

“Dean,” he mumbles out, tired now, “my name is Dean Winchester.”


	3. Chapter 3

He doesn’t know whether time moves slow or fast after that, whether it’s a blur of movements and voices or if it’s crawling by dully. He remembers Officer Novak’s smile, and not much after that; he’s pretty sure he’s said something, maybe answered some questions (which would most likely have been the same ones Officer Novak has asked all evening; how old are you, who’s your legal guardian, where do you live?), maybe spilled something more, especially tears, but it’s hard to recall. 

Though he knows for sure that at some point, he ends up in Officer Novak’s arms, sobbing and clinging to him, and there’s other faces and voices and names, and then they are gone. The world around him is gone. Passed out or asleep, it doesnt matter. Because the next thing he sees is Sammy, with fearful wide eyes and small hands clutching his rucksack, and they are in the backseat of Officer Novak’s police car and Dean can see their motel from there, some officers streaming in, streaming out, and Officer Novak, too. He’s got Dean’s rucksack packed as well and he gives it to him and takes his seat behind the wheel, and then they’re off.

In that moment, Dean knows – just like he knew about their house when it was in flames – that he won’t see the motel ever again. And neither what lies inside; maybe he won’t ever have to face again what came along with every motel room and every new city and every shadow. Loneliness, sometimes pain, always fear. _Helplessness._

He catches Officer Novak’s gaze in the rear view mirror, and blue eyes soften on the rim of a a smile. Dean can’t find it in him to smile back, still too washed away by that exhaustion that overcame him in Officer Novak’s office, so all he does is blink back slowly and wait until his consciousness slips away again.

*

“No,” Dean hears himself saying to the child care lady. “We wanna stay with Officer Novak.”

“I understand if you want to stay with him for the time being, and of course it’s okay for you and your brother to do so. That we do what you feel best with right now is of great importance. I will simply return in a week or two, when you have had time to process a bit, and then we will talk about foster ho–”

 _“No,”_ Dean insists, more vehemence behind his words than he can remember mustering up against an adult in a long time. “No damn foster family would want to take in a delinquent like me anyway. No one wants some criminal kid, especially not one who’s worked as a–” He swallows and takes deep breath. “Especially not one who’s almost old enough to live on his own anyway.”

“You know you are not officially a delinquent; no prostitute charges were brought against you, so none of this will show up on your records. For all anyone would officially know, you and your brother were rescued from an abusive, neglecting home.”

“And you think anyone will care about that? That they won’t investigate and ask around and won’t be able to simply _see_ the difference between Sam and and someone like _me?_ ” Dean doesn’t need the damn pity in her eyes, couldn’t care less abut how she’s already opened her mouth to disagree in a way she couldn’t _possibly_ disagree – because she doesn’t know him, and nor Sammy. Doesn’t know anything about them and their family and about the things they have done. “And I sure as hell won’t allow you to take Sam from me. Both you and me know he’s got a fair chance and I don’t, but it’s either both of us or– or–” He clenches his fist and his teeth and his eyes shut, willing away the desperation that threatens to flood his eyes. He won’t cry, not now, not after everything.

The warm weight of a hand not as unfamiliar now settles on his shoulder. Without speaking, wihtout Dean actually knowing for sure, it tells him that it’s okay for him to do shut the world away for a moment, that he doesn’t need his eyes to be always alert and open now anymore, not in front of the lady and not the world. Because now, there’s _one person_ who will take care of him.

“Would it be possible for Dean and Sam to stay with me for the time being, and that I could apply for guardianship for them in the meantime? I realize that, being a bachelor and working in a rather dangerous field, I may not be the most suitable applicant, but,” Officer Novak’s voice drifts off there for a moment, and Dean doesn’t need to be able to see to feel two pairs of eyes on him, “I believe it would be best for everyone if I were allowed to watch over the boys and take them up as my legal charges.”

“While that might be so, it would be wiser to move them into another city at least. Here is where John Winchester would start looking for them, and the town is too small to keep the boys hidden.”

“If you think this absolutely necessary, then we will go into another city. There are other precincts around, all over the States, and there will always be work for someone from the force.”

The lady sighs, but not in annoyance, but in what must be resignation, maybe hope. “I will see what I can do.”

The hand on Dean’s shoulder tightens, as naturally as it was put there in the first place, and the gesture makes Dean ache. For something he never had, something he had laughed about when there was just one more father encouraging his son on TV or another mother on the court cheering up her kid with hugs and kisses and proud smiles. 

Dean leans into the broad hand, despite himself, and dreams of living with this man. 

“Thank you,” Officer Novak says, sincerely. Dean doesn’t echo the sentiment out loud, but in his head, he, too, thanks her.

*

“Of course, the two of you will take the bed,” Officer Novak – no, _Castiel,_ he’s told them to call him – says as he puts on new linen on the queen sized mattress, but his words sound almost like a question to Dean. Or more like, a question about there being even a question about this.

“You’re not gonna share with us?”

“No,” Castiel replies slowly and with his forehead and nose scrunched up. Loose little feathers whirl around him and get stuck in his hair. “The bedroom will belong to you and Sam for the time being, until we move into a bigger place. I didn’t think it appropriate for me to sleep in the same bed with you, nor did I assume that you could possibly want that.”

Dean’s still trying to properly process how casual and natural Castiel sounds when he speaks about how they will actually stay together and move away, all three of them, as if it’s something that’s already set in stone and decided, no question about it, although they only talked to the child care lady maybe two hours ago. But what leads his thoughts astray is what else Castiel says, a word that catches his attention. One he’s grown familiar with.

“Not appropriate?”

“Yes.”

Of course.

Dean nods tightly and looks down. “Yeah, I get it.”

“What?” Castiel sounds genuinely perplexed by Dean’s drop, although his voice is still muffled by the pillows he loudly puffs up, making the bed look all comfy and warm. “What do you get?”

“Oh, you know,” Dean speaks around the lump in his throat, and he doesn’t even know whether his thoughts are ridiculous anymore or whether they are simply true. “Wouldn’t wanna actually _sleep_ with a kid whore either.”

The loud puffing and rustling sounds immediately die down at that, bring with them a long, stretched-out silence. 

Now Dean’s done it. Now he’s offended even a guy who was so patient with his shit up until now and didn’t even wanna let him blow him in exchange for no charges.

The sound of Castiel’s honest-to-god bee-slippers is the only thing to interrupt this silence after a few beats, and then their sound gets taken over by Castiel’s voice that’s now much closer than before, right in front of Dean. Dean still won’t look up and at him.

“It’s _inappropriate_ because you are two growing boys who had to make it through a lot of things and deserve some privacy and time for yourselves. The latter at the very least at your most vulnerable, during the night. It’s not inappropriate in a sexual sense and it’s also not an excuse for whatever you seem to believe I think about you; both you and Sam simply deserve a safe space in this home. One that doesn’t include strange men next to you or that is open to anyone who sets foot into this apartment.”

And Dean scoffs because sure, it sounds reasonable, but…

“Whatever.” Dean feels himself grow hot, not from simple embarassment but shame – shame that doesn’t extend as far back as a simple minute in conversation, but into the nights and alleys of many years. Maybe it’s fucked up that he feels _rejected_ of all things now, but he can’t place Castiel and whatever he is to him yet, only knows that the only ways he’s learnt to impress adults were to either take care of Sammy or to get them off. And well, since the former is off the table about now because _Castiel_ is specifically the one to take care of both of them now, Dean’s at a bit of a loss. Because Castiel doesn’t want Dean as a lover, that much did he already made clear when he declined his propositions on their way to the precinct, but as what else does he want him? As a child? Why would he go so far for some damn kids he’s only known to exist for a few hours now, opening their home to them and speaking of moving away with them, only so they’re safe? And why, of why, beyond it all, does Dean trust him? Why does he _know_ that Castiel will actually care for them?

“Dean,” Castiel’s gentle voice lures him out of his thoughts, and without Dean really noticing, he’s squatted down in front of him, in his ridiculous blue polka dot pajamas, and looks up at him with big, blue, concerned eyes. “You understand that, right? That I only want to give you space and that I do not now nor ever will look down on you for what you did to keep yourself and your brother safe and fed?”

Dean remains silent, because no, he doesn’t really get it yet.

Castiel sighs and closes his eyes for a second. His dark lashes fan against his cheek bones and highlight them, and in that moment, the thought strikes Dean that Castiel looks really soft and nice and pretty in a way few people and even fewer men do. It’s reassuring, just like everything about him. And when Castiel opens his eyes again, that thought strangely keeps lingering.

“You were very brave, Dean. Not just today, for finally telling someone about what you’ve gone through,” Dean tenses at that, because it sounds so dramatic, so _abused,_ “but also before. But you won’t have to shoulder all that anymore, not alone. I mean it when I say that you deserve to feel safe and be protected, and giving you a living space for yourself is part of that.”

“What if–” Dean starts, but his voice breaks up. This is stupid. His hesitation and especially his question. Still. He begins once again. “What if we – _I_ – don’t want that?”

“Not want what exactly?”

As bravely as Castiel claimed him to be, Dean gulps down his fear of rejection. “A space for ourselves. A bed that’s only me ‘n Sammy. ‘cause we were– it’s nothing new to us, I mean. Being alone at night. No dad, no mom. Just us. Alone in the room and in the bed, taking care of each other.”

Being scared with each other; being scared by themselves.

It’s easy to see the moment Castiel _gets_ it because his whole face melts in what Dean knows for a fact to be pity and guilt, but it’s not like he can do anything about it. “What do you want me to do?” he asks, all cautious and open now, far from making his own suggestions about what would be best for them.

“Stay with us. Or with me, I don’t know. If Sammy wants it, too. You in the room or next to him, I mean. So stay on my side of the bed with me and then we’re next to Sam, and he will still be able to see and touch me and I can do the same with you, and just– yeah. Stay.” He feels pathetic and so small, smaller than ever before, smaller than whenever Sammy woke up in the middle of the night, crying and shaking, and Dean had to wipe away his own scared tears to comfort him and cheer him up. He wants to be there for Sam, he does, _he does,_ but all the while, if Castiel– if he’s already offering, then Dean wants to have that, too. Somebody to hug him and soothe him and tell him it’s gonna alright. Because that’s what Castiel means, right? When he says he will take care of Sam and Dean, it has to be that. Because what use is there for a safe space when all that they need saving from comes from within that space, and won’t go away? When neither the shadows nor John keep them up at night.

“Alright,” Castiel says, simple as that, skin around his eyes crinkled, and it makes him look even prettier, and more grown-up and somehow even more reliable than even his uniform. “I will do whatever you want me to do,” Castiel promises, squatting and smiling in front of Dean still, and Dean feels a burden leave his shoulder, feels his back not quite straight but not as crooked anymore, because for some stupid reason – _hope,_ probably – he knows Castiel means it.


	4. Chapter 4

Castiel stays with them during the night, just like Dean asked him to. What’s more, he keeps to the edge of the bed, leaves the wide space of his mattress to the boys, still trying to provide them with what he thinks they need. 

But when Dean takes what he _knows_ he needs, that is, one of Castiel’s arms slung around him while Dean’s own arms are pulling in the tiny, shivering bundle that is his brother, close to his chest and into Castiel and Dean’s embrace, and Castiel just goes with it. 

He does nothing more than to sleepily murmur Dean’s name in confusion about his crowding in close and to wait and see what he does. By the time he’s got it, his big arm is lying protectively and tightly around Dean, right where the boy has placed it, and with other hand, he reaches over Dean’s head, brushing his hair with his skin, and lets his fingers skirt over Sam’s scalp, petting his head. Just clumsily and slowly, with obviously no petting experience to speak of, and yet it is enough. Enough to have Sam sigh out and murmur and snuggle even deeper into his brothers arms, already fast asleep and with his shivering gone.

And Dean, Dean dares to take the same comfort that his brother does – he presses a little kiss to Sam’s forehead, taking in his slow and quiet breathing, a sure sign of him being alive and safe, and then snuggles himself even deeper into the embrace of the man behind him.

*

All of them sleep soundly through the night.

And in the morning, Dean is the first one to wake. Carefully, he extracts himself from the cuddle pile on the bed, himself pressed in between the two others, Castiel’s hand still in the rough vicinity of Sam’s head, Sam’s tiny hand curled around one of Castiel’s big fingers, both still deep in sleep. 

They don’t do so much as stir when Dean waddles off the bed, taking great care not to accidentally step or fall on them, and then he makes his hesitant way to where he knows – thanks to Castiel’s little tour the evening before – where the kitchen is.

It feels weird and not like he is allowed to to just wander through this unfamiliar apartment, but Dean supposes that he will have to get used to it. That this is where were he lives now. Though maybe not for much longer, possibly only for the time being; if Castiel’s heeds that social worker’s advice, they probably won’t stay much longer here, or at least not long enough for Dean to get used to this place. To the white wallpapers and sparsely furnished rooms and books about law as much as about bees strewn all over, to the lack of homeliness and of a hand that knows how to transform a house into a home, into a comfy nest.

 _Well._ If there’s something Dean knows his way around, it’s making a home out of anything. There were more than enough places for him to learn and practice, after all; endless motel rooms, rundown houses and sometimes even solitary tents, pitched up far from any civilization, just nature and the brothers and whatever canned food still remained.

So, this is nothing new. In fact, the conditions are already way more promising: even though most of the food in this bachelor’s kitchen seems to be severely processed, at least there’s a lot of it. The cupboards are stacked with cans, plastic packages and energy bars, one ominous cupboard even filled with nothing but an extensive assortment of honey, and it’s much more food than Dean has seen in the last few weeks, maybe months even. It would be enough to feed Sammy for a quarter year at least.

And for a moment, an ugly, dark feeling surging up in Dean at this thought. He recognizes it all-too-quickly for what it is, as he has grown familiar to its sting with every new school and every of his classmate’s relaxed and carefree smiles, when all the troubles those other kids knew were bad grades and being grounded, not being poor and rootless and scared. It’s _envy,_ pure and smile. The basest of things, just the thought of, ‘Why do you have what I don’t?’, and as soon as Dean realizes what it is, it’s already gone again.

Because unlike all those times the kids around him reveled in their nice clothes and many friends and attentive parents and made Dean hunger for whatever they had, there’s no reason for that now. Dean doesn’t _have to_ envy Castiel his food and think about ways with which he could, as quick and easy as possible, steal it from him to bring it back to the motel room to Sammy, because it’s already his. _Theirs._ Castiel made it Sam’s and his by bringing him into his household, by accepting them as their charges and giving them free reign of whatever he has. The Bed, the fridge, the TV, the bathing tub big enough to easily hold two people – whatever Dean could want for, it doesn’t matter. Because it’s already theirs to use as they please. 

It’s what Dean always thought he only could have had in another lifetime. One in which he didn’t watch his mother go up in flames and burn up into ash right before his eyes. In which they didn’t have to confine themselves into shabby, scary rooms and wait for their father to return, alive and, if they are especially lucky, with something to eat.

Because there’s no John to fruitlessly wait on, only Castiel. And Castiel is already with them. They already have him. Him and his care and his food.

There’s already an abundance of what Dean would need to make a home.

“’re you preparing breakfast?” comes Castiel’s sleep-ridden voice from the kitchen door.

Dean whips around, having been to lost in his thoughts to have noticed him. His heart beats a bit faster at Castiel’s voice, too unused is he to suddenly having a person that is neither Sam nor his dad creep up on him, in whatever space he may have claimed as his nest just now. 

Had Castiel been any other man, Dean might go for the knife now or at least try to shield his body, so that he won’t stand in front of him in nothing but soft and too long pajama pants and a wrinkled nightshirt, unarmed. He might feel embarrassed or vulnerable, and he still does, though not as much as he thinks he would. Because Castiel has already seen him like this, has in fact equipped him with these clothes, and he has held him while Dean wore this. Has let Castiel been around him – as Castiel so helpfully had pointed out himself – at his most _vulnerable,_ and nothing has happened. Nothing bad, that is. All that occurred was that Dean was warm and comfy between his brother and his protector, and that he got a good night’s sleep. One of which he didn’t have many lately. Maybe not in years, even. Maybe ever since he didn’t have anyone to watch over him while he slept – but instead had someone he has had to watch over.

“Yeah,” Dean says, and despite his earlier confidence in how he is allowed to do whatever in this kitchen and this household, he feels a little less sure of himself now. “Unless you got a problem with that,” he says, intending to spit it out, challenging in the way he is used to around people like Castiel, cops and grown-ups alike, but it comes out a little small, as too much of a mirror of what he feels like. Not a challenge, but an inquiry.

He tightens his grip around the still frozen pack of toast he has found in the freezer.

“I’m rather thankful for it,” Castiel simply replies. Apparently, he either hasn’t picked up on Dean’s tone of voice or doesn’t give it any thought, because he doesn’t even look at Dean or ask any dumb questions when Dean still stands frozen. All he does is shuffle into the kitchen, feet warm in his bee slippers, eyes bleary and his finger on the coffee machine as soon as he reaches it.

The machine stirs and hums and sizzles, heating up the water.

Nothing else happens. No prying questions, no yelling about Dean just helping himself without given explicit permission to do so immediately beforehand.

It’s so easy, almost shockingly so.

“Do you want a coffee as well?” Castiel asks, his words slow and sluggish and still directed towards the coffee maker. “Ah, or should kids your age not drink coffee?”

Dean snorts at that, a small spurt of anger growing in a confused reaction to the unfamiliar situation. “If I can sell my damn ass, then I can sure as hell drink coffee, don’t you think?” 

Castiel finally blinks at him then, brows furrowed and eyes narrowed into a squint. He looks like it’s too early in the morning for him to fight, which is too bad because now that Dean is here, he will have to get used to it. After all, _kids his age_ are always looking for a fight, right? Angry, angry teenagers who just don’t know any better and are always out for shit.

“I think just because you _can_ do something doesn’t mean you _should.”_ Castiel places one sky-blue mug of coffee under the nuzzle and taps a button. Instantly, the machine whirrs loudly again and spits out a dark and rich-smelling liquid. “That was also not an answer. Do you want a cup as well or not?”

“What do you think?”

“Dean,” Castiel sighs out, just on the edge of annoyed, his usually unbreakably calm demeanour weakened by what Dean assumes must be the early hour. Dean almost feels bad for the man with tousled hair and still sleep-addled eyes. Almost, but not yet. “Yes or no? If you don’t want any, just say so. But it’s too early for this. Not–,” he sighs again, but it doesn’t sound annoyed anymore, simply tired, “just not before my first cup, please?”

The sudden and hot flush of embarrassment that goes hand in hand with these words has Dean drop his gaze, to concentrate on fumbling with the frozen toast package instead. 

He wanted to act like a brat, so he got treated like a brat. But instead of receiving the anger and screaming he was going for, all he got was some weary exasperation. It didn’t even take a full day for Castiel to tire of him, and ain’t that a record. John would have yelled and glared, maybe even slapped him had he let himself get engaged too far in Dean’s shit, but Castiel. Castiel is just weary and probably still half-asleep, somewhere between what Dean believes to be regret and a desire to return to bed. And yet he’s still patiently looking at Dean and waiting for his answer, instead of just deciding that in return for his sassiness, there would be no coffee and no breakfast for Dean now.

The clock in the kitchen ticks on for a handful of seconds, Dean’s shame growing with each of them. He thinks of how Castiel wanted to give him space and still slept with him when he asked him to, and how this is the immediate reward Castiel gets for it. A brat wearing his clothes, rummaging through his kitchen, eating his toast, and sassing him because he’s too proud to accept his coffee on top of all that.

Maybe Castiel would do better to just kick out Dean and keep Sam, leaving that brat of an elder brother to his own devices.

“Yes, please,” Dean says in a voice as small as his attitude.

Castiel doesn’t say anything more, neither good nor bad, and nods. He just pulls out another mug, this one with a bright yellow and smiling sun on it, and puts it beneath the now unoccupied nuzzle. As the next bout of coffee spills itself into the mug, he keeps rummaging in the cupboard, the same ones that Dean has already explored.

“How do you want to drink your coffee? With honey? Milk?”

Dean scrunches up his nose, but keeps his eyes pointedly fixed at the toast in his hands. Hesitantly, he begins to open the cold and half-frozen plastic packaging. 

Dean wants to say ‘Black, no sugar’, just like he usually does, just like his dad does. But John is not here at the moment, won’t look down on him if he concedes that the pure taste of coffee is too bitter for him, that he prefers milk and as much sugar as possible, so much that it barely tastes like coffee anymore, but _better._ Yeah, he doesn’t have to impress John by pretending that he likes coffee that much – that he wouldn’t like a hot cocoa, sweet and topped with cream, just like his mom used to make it for him, that much better. The same kind he always wanted to make for Sammy, even though he never did, not exactly like his mom did, because for some reason, he just couldn’t. A reason that he strongly suspects to be his childish selfishness, sadly. But what else is new.

“Milk,” Dean says, in lieu of asking for some cocoa powder and warm milk, “and sugar.”

“I don’t have any sugar, just honey.”

Dean can’t help but shoot him a disbelieving glance, then. “What?”

Castiel just cocks an eyebrow. “I use honey for anything I can. It’s much better for your health, and I know where and I personally now the people by whom it is produced. The bees work so hard and it would be a waste not to support them and their keepers or to make use of what they give us.”

It’s a good thing Castiel has already proven that he is harmless and wouldn’t take advantage of Dean, even when the circumstances would more than just allow but downright call for it, because this… this guy is a _nutjob._

“Okay,” Dean says slowly, “Honey, it is.”

“Good.” For the first time today, there is the hint of a smile playing around Castiel’s mouth. He reaches for the cupboard that Dean knows to be filled with his assortment of honey and, with a confident motion, takes one out. Dean doesn’t know if there’s any difference between the types of honey, whether there’s a reason for why Castiel decided on this one without apparently thinking twice on it, but asking would also be really lame. He would honestly be embarrassed for himself if he just went out and asked, ‘Hey, how do you choose the right kinda honey from your big-ass collection?’

So instead, Dean just silently watches as Castiel lets the honey drip from one coffee spoon into his own mug – one spoonful – and then into the sunny one – three spoonfuls –, then stirs the honey into the liquid. 

Already on the defense again, as much as he doesn’t really feel like going through with it, Dean thinks he should protest against the amount of honey in the mug that he suspects to be his. Sure, he himself thinks the more honey, the better, but Castiel doesn’t know that. Castiel shouldn’t just assume to treat him like a kid and put in as much honey as he likes. It’s annoying. Especiallyso  when Dean’s assumption about which mug is whose is confirmed by Castiel pouring milk into the sunny mug, but not his the blue one.

There’s a rant on his lips already when Castiel finishes up both mugs and hands Dean’s to him. 

And he smiles so widely as he does, holding Dean’s gaze and saying in a still sleepy voice, “I hope you like your coffee like this. If not, we can go out and buy some sugar later today”, and Dean just doesn’t have it in him. 

Because he still feels warm from the soft sheets and the strong arms that held him through the night – his reward for doing nothing but opening up and being honest, about big things like his father and about smaller things like wanting Castiel in their bed with them –, and he knows he will feel even warmer when drinking this. That this calm and safe feeling will only keep on growing, bigger and sturdier, with every hot sip and every night spent here or wherever Sam and Castiel and him may go. And that Dean will soon won’t think anymore about those nights spent on his knees or back or on hard pavement, that they will remain as nothing but a bad memory, a fading nightmare, as something already forgotten about at the breakfast table.

Where his new family will sit with him.

So, Dean takes the patiently offered coffee, not yet with a smile but a steady hand, catches Castiel’s crinkled eyes and puts the rim of his mug to his already parted lips.

**Author's Note:**

> This verse can also be found [here](http://avyssoseleison.tumblr.com/tagged/streets-and-sanctuaries-verse).


End file.
